


if you want to be happy in a million ways

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, it's christmas time!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 03:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: bernie brings serena 'round to her family's house for christmas. there's much mistletoeing and hearts are glowing and everyone is of good cheer. pre-relationship tropey goodness.





	if you want to be happy in a million ways

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays to all, who doesn't want some holiday fluff right now.

“Are you sure it’s all right that I’m here?” Serena asks, scuffing her foot against the stone step, ignoring Bernie’s almost scandalized look. She fiddles with the end of her fur stole, suddenly unsure of herself, a little self-conscious. 

“It’s a bit late for me to take back the invitation, seeing as we’re on my parents’ front stoop, Serena,” Bernie says. “Besides, I wouldn’t be allowed in if I left a fellow soldier alone in the field on a holiday.” With that pronouncement, she raps on the door with military precision, a sharp rat-a-tat-tat, and then there’s no turning back. 

Serena doesn’t quite know how she ended up here, how it went from moaning about not having Christmas plans to Bernie inviting her over for the traditional Wolfe gathering. “Elinor’s with her father, Jason has expressed his preference for Christmas with Alan, I will not let you sit around your house with an endless supply of shiraz and no company,” Bernie said in a tone that brooked no argument. 

"I think you'll find shiraz is excellent company," Serena replied, with only half-hearted enthusiasm, knowing the battle lost, already preparing herself to spend Christmas with a family she didn't know.

And now the door is opening, with an impeccably coiffed woman on the other side, a beaming smile on her face, her thin lips and long nose a mirror of her daughter. "Bernie," she crows, arms pulling her in and Serena wonders at Bernie's own inability to show affection. 

"Hello, Mother," she says, her voice muffled in the arm of her mum's red knit jumper. "I've brought a friend." One arm sort of aimlessly flaps at Serena, and she assumes it's an indication that she should step forward and introduce herself.

“You must be Serena!” Mrs. Wolfe crows, immediately letting go of Bernie and grasping Serena’s hand. “She’s talked so much about you, I started to think you might be her special someone!” Serena sees Bernie’s face turn bright red, a match for her mother’s sweater. “Call me Ingrid, and promise me you’ll save us all from too many Christmas cookies by eating your share.” 

Serena feels a little bamboozled, reeling a little from all this festive cheer and goodwill thrust in her face by Ingrid Wolfe. Bernie won’t meet her in the eyes, bashfully looking up at the lintel of the door as though it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. With her hand still in that of Bernie’s mother, Serena allows herself to be led into the house. 

She tells herself she never spent time imagining where Bernie grew up, what kind of place birthed her into the world, the most competent doctor, the most disastrous of people. There’s a bit of organized chaos everywhere, tinsel hung just off-center, ornaments hung on the tree at random, presents in a messy pile underneath, pine needles sprinkling the ground. But there’s an element of homeyness to it all, something Serena lacked at her own Christmases growing up, and she feels at ease in a way she’s only felt with Bernie, wonders if it’s some sort of hereditary Wolfe trait. 

“The boys will be arriving in a bit, they’ve just messaged me that they’re off the train! They’re in the spare rooms, so you two will be bunking in here.” Ingrid’s kept them bustling through the house, and Serena promises herself she’ll be taking a look at those family photos hanging in the dining room later. ‘In here’ turns out to be a sort of den or office, with a pull-out sofa, already made up with snowflake-patterned sheets and a festive duvet. 

“Together?” Bernie squeaks out and Serena shoots a look at her, has never heard quite that tone of voice from the other woman before. She’s still that shade of luminous red, and Serena wonders if she’s developed some sort of allergy to her family home. 

“You don’t mind kipping in the same bed, do you? We’re short on space and all,” Ingrid says, but there’s not a note of apology in her voice, just a firm note that allows nothing but agreement, and the family resemblance between mother and daughter heightens. 

“We don’t mind at all. Can’t be worse than sharing our office on AAU. At least there won’t be any styrofoam coffee cups to spill all over my keyboard,” Serena says with a light laugh, wanting to distill whatever tension might be brewing. This comment earns Bernie a disapproving glare from her mother. “Ah, not that. It only happened that once. Bernie’s not that messy,” she tacks on, but she’s not even fooling herself and Bernie just blows her fringe out of her eyes and looks back down at the floor. 

“Right, well. Get settled, and then come into the kitchen for a cuppa! Crawford’s excited to meet you too, Serena,” Ingrid says, clasping Serena’s shoulder firmly and then making her exit, closing the door to the study behind her. 

“I’m sorry,” Bernie says, the instant they’re alone. “I didn’t know both my brothers were coming and that we’d end up sharing.” She sounds so worried, so apologetic, and Serena instinctively reaches out a hand to her elbow, trying to calm her, to assuage her concern. 

“It’s all right - we shared a room at that horrible conference in Belfast, remember? I don’t remember giving or receiving cooties that night, I think we can manage it again for a few nights here.” Her thumb rubs against the pink felt of Bernie’s coat, and she sees Bernie’s face soften, the way her dark eyes warm, the corners of her mouth just tipping up slightly. “It’s all right,” she says again, and then Bernie smiles, and Serena thinks they really will be fine. 

*

Serena’s been corralled into decorating cookies and she’s finding that a bit of Jason’s perfectionist streak has rubbed off on her. She hides a smile as she thinks that Bernie would immediately rejoin that Serena’s always been a bit of a perfectionist and she can’t go blaming negative attributes on her nephew. There are bowls of royal icing and sprinkles and Serena is in a tizzy trying to decide what shapes to do on the sugar cookies in front of her, while Bernie is sat next to her dashing things all over the place and making an absolute mess, her tongue wedged right in between her teeth, just poking out from her lips. 

She can so easily imagine her at this same table as a little girl - she’s seen the photos of Bernie in her school days now, all skinned knees and sloppy pigtails, decorating cookies any which way, knowing what matters is how they’ll taste at the end. Serena sighs to herself, picks up a toothpick and begins to draw the outline of a Christmas tree in the green icing, wishing more of her mother’s artistic talent made it through the gene pool. 

She’s about to open her mouth to say something when the back door bursts open and two pink-faced men, long-nosed and blonde-haired, practically fall into the kitchen. “BERNIE!” one yells, and the other lifts her up into a bear hug. Serena is once again taken aback by the physical affection she’s seen in this house, once again wonders why Bernie feels she struggles with it so much. 

“Who’s this then?” the hugger asks, pointing at Serena once he’s let his sister go. 

“My friend, Serena. We work together and she was going to be alone for the holiday, so thought I’d bring her along,” Bernie says, and for the first time since Serena’s met her, she looks completely at ease, comfortable, like herself. It makes Serena want to become another person Bernie can be completely herself with. She brushes the wistful thought from her mind as she holds out her hand and officially meets Jacob and Lucas Wolfe, boisterous twins, five years younger than their sister. 

She thinks maybe Bernie’s always been put in a sort of caretaker role, carrying a burden of responsibility, helping raise two irascible brothers, trying to be a role model. Serena knows how self-punishing Bernie is, can’t imagine how the weight of her failed marriage sat, when she was probably thinking she’d let down her family as well as her children. She resists the urge to hug Bernie, instead lets her arm just brush against Bernie’s, their shoulders touch, and it feels just like they’re back on AAU, a united front. 

Bernie turns to look at Serena, their eyes meeting, and Serena feels a flush starting low in her belly, a sort of lovely curdling that makes her feel enveloped in Bernie’s warmth. She blinks when Lucas coughs, and she sees Bernie’s cheeks pink up again, notes it’s the third time in just a few hours that it’s happened. She bumps their elbows once more and gets back to the business of cookie decorating. 

“Are you better or worse at dropping sprinkles on cookies than your sister?” Serena asks, fixing each man with a firm stare as they take seats on the opposite side of the table. 

“She’s a regular Pollack with decorations,” Lucas says, grabbing for a bowl of blue icing, dropping polka dots willy nilly. “Might’ve taught us well, eh?” Jacob is just as haphazard as his brother, dropping cinnamon imperials and tree-shaped sprinkles with wild abandon. 

“All of you, lost causes,” Serena says jovially, once again focused on her accurate portrayal of an evergreen tree on the top of a cookie. Bernie leans over and pushes a cinnamon imperial right into the top and offers no apology whatsoever, just a look of absolute innocence in the face of Serena’s pointed glare. 

“You needed a tree topper,” is all Bernie says and pops another cinnamon imperial into her mouth, her teeth crunching at it. Serena catches Lucas and Jacob looking at them, matching appraisal in their eyes, and she doesn’t know what to make of it, pulls a bare sugar cookie towards her instead, putting a streak of purple icing across it. 

There’s been too many watchful stares, too much blushing and Serena doesn’t know what to make of it, for all that she’s been in the Wolfe household for half a day. She knows the same sorts of looks get tossed around AAU, that Raf and Fletch have secret whisper meetings about the two of them on the regular, some bet that neither one will get into the specifics of. The defensive part of her brain tells her that people don’t understand that women of a certain age have a special bond, that her friendship with Bernie is something unique and wonderful. 

Another part of her brain says that there’s something more lurking behind the surface, something that makes her cheeks turn red when she and Bernie look at each other too long, something that makes her reach out and touch Bernie whenever she can, something that makes her seek out Bernie’s company more than any other person in the world. The same thing that makes her stomach twist in knots when Bernie gives her a gentle touch in return, when she leans in to mutter a joke in Serena’s ear, when she brushes that messy hair back and Serena gets a view of that lovely neck. 

She doesn’t know what name to put to it, doesn’t know if she just thinks there’s something there because she knows Bernie’s a lesbian, and if her prehistoric brain just assumes there’d be an attraction there. So she maintains that they’re friends, nothing more, and does her best to ignore the giggles and the looks. It’s only when Bernie blushes too that Serena wonders if she might not be getting the right end of the stick. It’s when she’s sat in Bernie’s family home and every single member of Bernie’s family has made a comment or stared. 

It’s a relief when Crawford Wolfe comes into the kitchen where the Wolfe siblings are dashing sprinkles around and laughing their loud honking laughs. A respectful silence overtakes the room when his presence is noted, and Bernie stands to greet him. There’s a bit of an awkward pause as he and his daughter try to negotiate their pleasantries and it ends up being a handshake with the other hand on the opposite shoulder and Serena sees where it is Bernie’s inherited her inescapable ineptitude with physical interaction from.

“Serena,” he rumbles, looking in her direction, the same lovely dark eyes as Bernie and Serena likes him instantly. She stands, her chair scraping loudly on the floor, and holds out her hand, has shaken hands so many times today, has been a stranger over and over again. But Crawford’s grasp is warm and makes her think of Bernie in the best way. “I see you’re leading the charge for elegant cookies. Ingrid will be so pleased - this lot never did take to her exacting standards.” 

Lucas and Jacob laugh, though Bernie looks abashed, as if she hasn’t lived up to the expectations she’s set for herself - Serena knows how high Bernie’s standards are. “It might be more fun their way,” she says as a peace offering and feels Bernie’s elbow just nudge her, soft and tentative, like so many of her overtures at affection, but the feeling of it shoots right down to her toes like a lightning bolt. 

Cookie decorating doesn’t last much longer, most of them splattered and sprinkled, but Serena managed to get a few of them looking quite beautiful, and Bernie makes sure to put hers on the top of the platter. She smiles one of her small secret smiles as she arranges the cookies, looking up through her fringe at Serena as if asking for approval. It’s one of those times Serena wishes she could just pull Bernie right into a hug.

*

Bernie and Serena stay up late, the fire Crawford built dwindling away in the fireplace, just embers glowing and the remains of the wood popping and cracking. It’s cozy, Serena thinks, tucked up in her comfortable clothes, sitting on a settee with Bernie. Their knees are just touching, her feet up on the cushions, underneath her rump, and Serena wonders briefly if it’s possible to freeze a moment in time. 

“Do you like Christmas?” Bernie asks, twisting a lock of her beautifully messy hair between two fingers. The fire is reflected in her eyes, dancing there, and Serena is captivated, has to take a moment to process what the question was.

“I do, I think,” she says, not at all convincingly. “I liked it as a child. My mum did the best cookies and our tree was always beautiful. She gave good gifts, special ones. Not always things I asked for, but I always loved them. Like one of those dolls that was a doctor, or a science set. Things that meant more than just what they were.” Serena leans her head back against the sofa cushions and closes her eyes. “What about you?”

“I like being with family,” Bernie says, and her voice sounds wistful, far away. “In the desert, I missed so many Christmases, so I really value the ones I get to have at home.” It makes sense, Serena thinks, that holidays would carry special significance. “I miss watching Cam and Charlotte open presents.” 

Serena sits up at that, has no compunction about grabbing Bernie’s hand, threads their fingers together. There’s wetness at the corners of Bernie’s eyes, and all Serena can do is hold on tight. “They know you love them,” she says, “they’re just...taking their time.” It’s not enough, there’s nothing that will ever be enough, but Serena moves slightly closer to Bernie, close enough that she can pull her into a hug that isn’t too awkward, their cheeks pressed together, and Serena can feel the slightest bit of dampness against her cheek. Bernie’s arms slowly come up around Serena’s back, her fingers tentative, but Serena holds on as long as Bernie needs.

There’s a prim throat-clearing that makes them spring apart, and Serena turns, red-faced, to see Ingrid standing on the steps in her housecoat, hair pulled away from her face. “I was just checking on the fire, but I see you’ve got it well in hand,” she says, fingers twisting on the newel post. “Good night, then.” There’s a long pause before she turns to go back up the stairs and Serena feels like she’s been caught snogging with a boyfriend or something, guilt creeping up her spine - guilt over what, she’s not sure.

Bernie stands, putting distance between them that feels like a chasm, and she pulls the screen across the tiles in front of the fire to catch any sparks. “We can go to - I think I’m going to go to bed,” Bernie says, fumbling for words and flushed, whether from the heat of the embers or something else, Serena isn’t sure. 

“I’ll come too,” Serena says and immediately regrets her choice of words, the double meaning of it making her stomach flip about, her heart rattle around in her ribcage. “I’m tired,” she adds lamely, as if that erases her previous words from the air between them, where she imagines it hanging like a speech bubble.

Bernie lets Serena use the downstairs bathroom while she tromps upstairs. She can hear the comforting sound of the faucet running, the water moving in the wall, and she can practically see Bernie mirroring her own actions in the loo just upstairs. Brushing her teeth, spitting out minty froth into the sink, washing her face. The remnants of her mascara and lippy come off on a damp tissue and Serena thinks she can count on one hand the number of times Bernie’s seen her bare-faced, feels suddenly self-conscious, that she’s going to destroy some illusion about herself.

“Don’t be ridiculous, she knows you wear make-up,” Serena scolds herself, but looks at her reflection once more, a little despairingly, wishing for a few less wrinkles, a few less spots. She rubs her lips together, a little color seeping into them, and runs a hand through her short hair, wishing for a few less greys as well, if she’s wishing.

Bernie’s already in the study by the time Serena returns, and she’s standing at the foot of the pull-out, a consternated look on her face. “I don’t have a side,” she says. “I usually just starfish out in the middle.”

“I’m the same. Never saw much point in a side when there’s no one to have the other one. We’ll just have to avoid each other’s tentacles,” Serena says, aiming for a light-hearted tone, forcing a little chuckle that sounds far more like a schoolgirl’s giggle than she’s entirely comfortable with. “I’ll take right, you take left.” It’s the voice of the head of AAU speaking, decisive and sure, when inside, she’s wobbling a little bit as she peels back the duvet.

The first thing she feels is Bernie’s ice cold toes hitting her shin and she yelps in surprise. “You’ve got icicles down there!” she says, looking betrayed, and Bernie grins sheepishly, offers only a half-hearted apology. 

In the end, somehow Bernie’s feet end up tucked beneath Serena’s calves, a concession to keeping her co-lead warm. “Wouldn’t do to have you come back from holiday with the sniffles,” Serena says, though if she’s honest, she likes the feeling of Bernie being so close, likes being useful to the other woman. 

They’re facing each other, a pillow in between them like a wall. “To ward off the tentacles,” Bernie says, though Serena knows she only likes to sleep with one pillow, that it would have ended up somewhere else on the bed no matter what. Bernie’s eyes flutter closed, like she has no problem falling asleep and Serena’s envious. She watches Bernie’s face, the shadow of her long nose in the dark room, she can just make out the eyelashes on Bernie’s cheeks, a dark crescent imprint. Her blonde hair gleams in the moonlight that peeks through the blinds of the room, and Serena thinks she’s almost otherworldly in her beauty, tries not to think of her own spots and wrinkles in the face of it. 

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, sighs it out, counts to seven and breathes in again, slowing her intake and exhale, calming herself. Her heart still feels a bit fluttery, her mind is still whirling at the events of the day, and all she can do is try to slow it all down, to find some sort of peace. In the end, she’s asleep before she even realizes, an early Christmas present to a frantic mind.

*

Before Serena even opens her eyes, she knows it snowed overnight. There’s just a calmness she can sense, the feeling of a noisy world dampened. There’s something tickling at her nose and she tries to remember if the Wolfes have a cat. Reaching up to scratch, she feels strands of hair - opening her eyes, she sees that somehow overnight, she’s pressed herself against Bernie’s back, that Bernie’s rear is snugly situated at Serena’s hips. 

It’s cozy in a way Serena hasn’t felt in ages, comfortable, secure. She’s warm, with Bernie so close, the popsicle toes a distant memory. She could even let herself believe it wasn’t just accidental movement in the night, that maybe Bernie likes being snuggled up together. But she feels Bernie stir, knows that the calmness, the few moments of peace where she could pretend that this was something more, they’re flying away.

Bernie’s whole body stiffens, Serena can feel the change, and she pulls her body away, turning onto her opposite side, so she’s facing Serena, the way they fell asleep last night. “Morning,” she says, her voice a sleepy husk, and Serena feels a bit weak from it, at the idea of it. About how Bernie’s morning voice might sound in other situations. And then Bernie stretches, her chest pushed out and Serena thinks that there’s no way Bernie can be this oblivious, no way that Bernie is unaware of the effect she might have. 

“Sleep well?” Serena asks, casting her eyes about to anywhere else in the room, moving onto her back, the ceiling suddenly fascinating. 

“Quite. Mattress making me feel a bit stiff, but I’ll make it through somehow. I always sleep well when it snows,” she says, swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, sitting up, her back to Serena. She almost offers to rub Bernie’s back for her, to ease the soreness, but restrains. “Just to warn you, it’s tradition for a Wolfe family snowball fight on Christmas Eve, and I’m afraid you’re in for it today.”

It’s strange to think that today is Christmas Eve, the holidays always creeping up on her a little, but she’s never one to shirk from tradition, even if she can’t remember the last time she made a snowball, much less threw one. She doesn’t even know if she packed appropriate gloves. “As long as there’s some grown up hot chocolate at the end of it,” she concedes and turns her head to watch Bernie rifle through her suitcase, knows she should avert her eyes but can’t quite find the willpower, not when Bernie pulls off her shirt and there’s just a long muscular back dotted with moles and freckles. 

She feels like she’s stepped into some new world, coming to Bernie’s family home, that somehow, she’s opened up this new part of herself, this part that allows herself to think of Bernie in a different light, the part that is admitting to herself she’s perhaps always felt this way. 

“I’ll get the coffee going,” Bernie says, when her jumper’s been pulled over her head, some ridiculous lycra leggings slid on her legs. Serena smiles wanly and chastises herself for mooning about so obviously, rolling herself out of bed the minute the door to the study closes behind Bernie. 

She dresses quickly, wishing for a moment she’d brought something more festive along, but she at least packed denims in favor of her normal work trousers. A concession to casual wear. By the time she makes her way to the kitchen, the entire Wolfe clan is seated at the table, and she just _knows_ they’re a family of early risers. She can imagine them all jogging together and almost shudders at the thought. 

Bernie hands a mug of steaming coffee to Serena, smiling up at her the same way she smiles over a cuppa from Pulses, and it makes Serena’s heart flip flop a little, makes it lurch sideways in her chest. Their fingers just touch as Serena takes the mug, wrapping her hands around the warm porcelain, and she could almost imagine the world has been winnowed down to just the two of them. 

Breakfast is bowls of cereal, just clanking spoons and quiet mouths, and Serena can’t remember the last time she ate breakfast without the thrum of the hospital or a steady stream of historical facts from her nephew. It feels more like a vacation than she thought it would, and she feels her shoulders ease, some of her tension evaporate. 

The promised snowball fight happens sooner than Serena would like, sooner than she’s entirely ready for. She plops her fur cap on her head, thick gloves shoved into her hands and a crowing Lucas shouting that no one will hit him. 

Jacob beans him with his first throw, and Serena can’t stop laughing.

It feels good, to laugh, to be outside, to be having _fun_. She can’t quite conceive the last time she felt this much unbridled pleasure, not tied to anything, just simple enjoyment. She watches her breath come out in puffy curls, feels the way the snow packs under her boots. Bernie is a kamikaze with snowballs, throwing left and right, hitting Lucas and Jacob just as much as she gets hit, but there’s a look of pure glee on her face that Serena thinks she’ll remember forever, lit from within like an effervescent lightning bug. 

She takes a moment to crouch down, to mold the perfect circle of snow between her mitted hands, pushing it together, hefting it to know if it’s the right size to throw. She tries to remember back to her days of being forced to play goalie on the hockey team, catching the ball and throwing it back to her team. Ruefully, Serena thinks she only played field hockey one or two times, begging off with cramps more times than she can remember. 

But there’s some instinct left in her as she cocks her arm and throws the snowball, hitting Bernie in the back, the snow puffing out like confetti, a picture perfect moment. Bernie whirls around to see where the hit came from, catches sight of Serena and gets a glint in her eye that is all at once alluring and terrifying. Without breaking eye contact, she bends down and makes her own snowball, throwing one back at Serena with a fluid motion that makes her envious. 

Serena dodges it, just getting clipped on the shoulder, ducks to avoid another missile from Jacob and then is fully gotten when Lucas manages to knock the fur hat from her head. She bends to reach for her hat, misjudges the slipperiness of the snow, her own balance, and finds herself toppling into the fluffy whiteness.

“Serena!” Bernie’s shout sounds slightly panicked and Serena can just picture her loping across the snowy yard to get to her. She looks up at Bernie, face red with embarrassment and holds up a hand.

“Only my pride is injured this time,” she says. “Help me up.” 

She was never one for physics in school and isn’t sure the mechanics of exactly what happens next, but all she knows is that Bernie’s fallen on top of her, that they’re just a heap of limbs in the snow, fingers tangled together, and Bernie’s hair is escaping from it’s ponytail, a strand just tickling Serena’s cheek. 

They’ve never been this close, not really, not like this. Serena can feel Bernie’s breath on her nose, can feel the warmth from where their bodies are pressed together. Bernie’s lips are slightly parted, her face flushed, and all Serena can think is how lovely she is, her hand twitching just a little as she’s tempted to push Bernie’s hair back, to touch her beautiful face. 

She thinks how easy it would be to kiss Bernie. 

“Oi! You lot! Are we having a snowball fight or have you decided to take a nap!” Lucas’ voice jars them both and Bernie scrambles away, backwards, their fingers still intertwined, and she brings Serena with her, brushing snow off her trousers and then Serena’s, seemingly unaware of what she’s doing as her hand comes dangerously close to groping Serena’s rear end. 

“All right?” Bernie asks in a low voice, worried look in her eyes, and Serena can only imagine what she sees. Imagines she looks a little panicky, all flushed and wild-eyed, like the fall took her by surprise and not the overwhelming urge to snog her coworker, hitting her so forcefully it might as well have been another snowball. 

“Yes,” she says hurriedly, putting her hat back on, looking past Bernie’s shoulder, seeing Jacob lifting his arm to hit them, sitting ducks that they are. “Better move or your brother will get the best of you. Again.” It spurs Bernie into action and she becomes a whirling dervish of throwing snow, and Serena retreats to the front stoop to watch, content to laugh at the antics of siblings. Ingrid comes out with a mug of cocoa and takes a seat next to Serena. 

“Good to see them play, isn’t it?” Serena asks, wondering what Elinor might be like with siblings, wonders what she’d be like if there were brothers in her life. 

“It’s nice that Bernie’s come back to us,” Ingrid says. “So many years, so many missed Christmases. She seems happier now, even with everything.” Serena takes a sip of the hot chocolate, can clearly taste the Bailey’s that’s been added with a generous hand and almost chokes in surprise. “You gave it a good fight and that deserves something special in your cocoa,” Ingrid says, bumping her shoulder into Serena’s, so much like Bernie that Serena feels her heart squeeze between her ribs. 

Bernie tires more quickly than her brothers and Serena can see the stiffness in her posture, the slowness in her step as she makes her way over to them. But she’s smiling, her eyes are bright, and Serena feels hit once more with a sense of blinding attraction, feels overcome. She opens her mouth to make a quip about any fight being left in the old dog, but what comes out instead is an offer to help her ease the stress in her back. “It’s my duty as a doctor,” she qualifies, a sideways glance at Ingrid, can’t help but note the knowing look in her eyes, like she knows there’s something just beneath the surface.

But she lets the two of them go without comment, and Bernie leads the way back in the house, pausing for Serena to rinse her mug of hot chocolate and there’s a sense of domesticity around everything as she leans her hip against the counter and watches Serena at the sink, running hot water from the tap. Serena feels like she could imagine this moment happening every day for the rest of her life, feels like it’s so easy, so simple. Like nothing she’s ever felt before. 

It’s Serena’s turn to lead as they go to the den, the duvet still rumpled from sleep, and she gestures for Bernie to sit, kneels awkwardly behind her. There’s a few moments of uncertain tension as they get comfortable, and Bernie almost immediately stiffens at Serena’s hands on her back and she jerks back. “Are you sure it’s all right?” she asks, worry wrinkling her brow.

“Just...particular about who puts their hands on me,” Bernie says, “I’m fine. I want you to - you can - it’s okay.” Serena tentatively reaches out to touch Bernie again and this time she stays still. She imagines the serene look on Bernie’s face, thinks maybe she’s closed her eyes, slowed her breath. 

Rubbing at Bernie’s shoulders, she can feel the tightness there, spreads her hands to draw long strokes down her back, notes the groans of pleasure, the sharp intakes of breath when she’s hit a sore spot. “You’re all knotted up,” she says in a low voice and Bernie just nods, her blonde ponytail bobbing up and down. 

Moving back up towards Bernie’s neck, Serena continues her gentle ministrations, can almost see Bernie relaxing in front of her, melting a little, the customary reserve ebbing away. She pauses slightly, her thumbs just rubbing small circles, her fingers stilled, and Bernie’s hands come up to cover her own. “Thank you,” she says, her voice husky, like she’s been silent for so long it fell into disuse. 

Serena stills, like Bernie is a deer she doesn’t want to scare away. Like she herself is a timid fawn, unsure of what is happening. Her cheeks pink up as she thinks back to the moment in the snow, how close they were, how little space was between them. And now they’re here, practically holding hands, just sitting together, alone in their small world and Serena doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t know where they go from here. 

Bernie’s hands gently squeeze Serena’s, callused and rough, but so loving. “Best get dressed for church. Hope you’ve warmed up your carol-singing voice, because my mother _will_ notice. You might get a formal review when it’s all said and done.” She pulls her hands away and moves from Serena’s grasp. 

*

Bernie told Serena to pack one fancy outfit, and that’s what she dons for Christmas Eve services, a deep burgundy sweater, a cashmere extravagance from the winter before when she was out shopping and feeling sorry for herself, splurged. It comes to a vee, the barest hint of cleavage visible and she wonders, belatedly, if perhaps it’s too much for church. She slips her feet into a pair of matching heels, ordinary black trousers the only other thing she managed to scrounge up. But she feels festive even so, her silver pendant glinting in the low light like a Christmas light, a bit of sparkle. 

Bernie’s in a green sweater, a button-up underneath, the collar just peeking through, a louder pattern than Serena’s ever seen her wear before - more color than Bernie’s ever worn before, if she’s thinking about it, a far cry from her blues and greys and blacks. But the evergreen is so pretty on her, her blonde hair just scraping her shoulders, her usual earrings traded out for a bit of Christmas sparkle too, small pendants loaned from Ingrid. 

They stand next to each other in a pew that’s too small for six people, but they’ve mashed themselves into it anyway, shoulder to shoulder, and Serena thinks she almost feels like family. She and Bernie share a hymnal and there’s something lovely about hearing Bernie’s reedy off-key voice singing the words of songs they both know so well. 

It fills her heart, her soul, as she lifts her voice to join in the chorus of “Angels We Have Heard on High,” sees the way Bernie looks at her from under her fringe, as if surprised by her clear alto, a point of pride all throughout Serena’s life. 

There’s a comforting idea of the Christmas Eve service, almost identical to every other Christmas Eve service she’s ever attended, the same readings, the same Gospel, an unchanged rite since time immemorial. As the lights dim at communion, the organ softly begins to play the strains of “Silent Night,” and every parishioner is given a small wax candle to hold as they move back to their seats. 

Serena feels tears prick at her eyes, somehow overcome by it all, truly feeling the magic of Christmas, right down into her toes. She feels the warm solid presence of Bernie next to her and thinks this might be her happiest holiday yet, with this person beside her. As they sing the second verse, Bernie nudges Serena as they sing the fourth line, putting a hard “r” sound on the end of “Alleluia.”

“They don’t rhyme otherwise,” she whispers. “Sometimes you have to help the hymn writers out.” It’s so ridiculous, so strange and so funny and unexpected that a loud snort escapes Serena before she can stop herself. She sees Ingrid look down at them, sees Jacob’s shoulders start to shake in silent laughter and before long, the six of them are all sitting in their tiny pew, lips pressed together, faces red from withheld giddiness, small candles sending flickering shadows across the stones of the church. 

The walk back to the Wolfe house is brisk and cold, the sky dark, the stars bright and Serena walks close to Bernie, close enough that their elbows brush, that she thinks about clasping Bernie’s hand in her own. The snow catches the moonlight and it’s those silver white winters of song. There’s something soul-satisfying about it all, and as she feels overcome with the feeling of the moment, she does reach out to take Bernie’s hand, only slightly marveling at how right it feels, how natural. But why shouldn’t it be that way, when every moment of their lives together has always felt like another piece of a puzzle falling into place.

Their hands, pressed together, just the thin felt of their gloves acting as separation, feels like a Christmas gift of its own, makes Serena feel lighter than air, makes her feel like freshly fallen snow.

*

It’s late when they get back home, late enough that everyone just puts on their pajamas and heads to their bedrooms. Serena settles into the fold-out mattress, a small divot from where she slept the night before still there. Bernie is fussing in her suitcase, crouched over it, moving things around and generally being the fidgety sort of person she becomes when she’s nervous about something. 

“I got you something,” Bernie says, her voice quiet, and she finally turns around, a small box in her hands. It isn’t wrapped, but there’s a store-bought bow that’s been stuck to the top of it, the adhesive only half working so the ribbon flops a bit as she moves to sit next to Serena on the bed. 

“We said no presents,” Serena says, which was their agreement on AAU, that they were too old for gifts, that they had the means to buy anything they want for in their own lives. She thinks of a nice new pair of leather gloves, tan and buttery, tucked away in a closet, bought for Bernie on a whim, then set aside at the agreement to leave gifts behind.

“It’s nothing really, but I wanted you to have it.” Bernie hands it to Serena and she lifts the small lid, sees a small round disk with the imprint of a key etched into. “That’s the key that opens our office at Holby,” Bernie says. “It’s - well - it’s important to me. To us. What we built.” She’s fumbling for words and Serena stops her with a gentle hand on her arm.

She opened up her life for Bernie, cracked it wide without a second thought and let the other woman move in, made room for her as though she was built for it. The fact that Bernie knows it, that Bernie recognizes it. That Bernie cherishes all the things they share. It makes Serena well up, and she thinks she’s done it too many times over the past few days. “I love it,” she says, and the voice at the back of her mind, quiet and insistent says _I love you_. 

Pulling Bernie into a hug, Serena buries her face into the soft space at the curve of her neck, breathes in the scent that is Bernie and Christmas all at once, just holding her close. “Thank you,” she whispers and feels Bernie’s arms settle into a squeeze.

When Bernie slips under the duvet, she’s got socks on her feet as a concession to protect Serena from her cold toes, and Serena’s almost rueful, liked how close they were. But instead of staying on her side, instead of putting up a pillow between them, Bernie’s arms tentatively come towards Serena, snagging her hips, inviting her to sleep wrapped up in an embrace. 

It’s new, it’s different, and all Serena feels is her body thrumming with a thousand yeses. Bernie’s chin tucks against her shoulder, a sharp point that feels like home. “All right?” Bernie asks, because she always checks, she always wants to make sure, and Serena nods, loves how she feels Bernie differently with every movement of her body. 

“One more sleep til Christmas,” she murmurs, already feeling sleep crawl over her, lulled into satisfied exhaustion by carols and snow and Bernie Wolfe. The last thing she feels before she falls asleep is the slightest pressure of Bernie’s lips against her skin, but she thinks she might have dreamt it.

*

When the sun peeks in through the curtains in the morning, Serena is still pressed against Bernie’s front, their bodies flush together like slats on a wine barrel. She doesn’t want to think how good it feels, how right, how lovely, doesn’t want to get used to it, though it’s the second morning in a row now that she’s woken up in close quarters to Bernie Wolfe. There’s a part of her that fears it’s just a Christmas something, just the holiday making things happen that might not at any other time of year.

And then there’s the part of her that hears Bernie’s sleepy sigh, the one that tells her Bernie’s just waking up, the part of her that feels the way Bernie’s fingers tighten just slightly as she comes to, the way they press into the fleshy part of her side and make her heart jump. The part of her that thinks she might want this forever. 

“Happy Christmas,” she says, her voice low with sleep and Bernie just nods, her nose brushing against Serena’s neck. She wants to tell Bernie how much she likes this, wants to ask if Bernie might think about sleeping over once a week just so they might have this, if this is all they ever do, when they return to their normal lives. 

“Jacob and Lucas used to wake me up every Christmas before the sun was even up,” Bernie says, rolling away from Serena, one hand still resting just at her back, between her skin and the sheets. “Clamoring about Santa and stockings. Now they’re the ones we have to drag out of bed usually.” Her fingers twitch slightly, tickling a little and Serena flinches, regrets that it makes Bernie pull her hand away. 

“Elinor loved Christmas as a child, just loads of gifts to unwrap. Edward and I were always vying for top parent so that girl was spoiled rotten. One of many things I’d do differently,” Serena says wistfully. She thinks about a world where her younger self met Bernie Wolfe at a conference, where their hands met on the last glass of red wine during the social hour. A world where they could have years and years and years.

“What about when you were growing up?” Bernie asks, sleepily pushing her blonde hair back off her face, the veins in her neck taut as she stretches up, propping her chin with one hand. 

Serena doesn’t realize she’s doing it but her fingers have a mind of their own and they hook a wisp of Bernie’s hair behind her ear, an unimaginably personal touch, and she feels embarrassed at herself, even as her nails scrape lightly against Bernie’s chin as she pulls her hand away. “Christmas was always quiet, just me and Mum,” she says, and pretends she doesn’t notice the blush on Bernie’s face. “She woke me up and we’d make eggs and toast for breakfast and eat on the floor in front of the fireplace, and she didn’t even make me get dressed. Pajamas all day long. And she stayed in hers too. The one day a year.” 

Serena can remember the good things now, doesn’t feel the sharp pain at how it all ended. She wonders what Adrienne might’ve thought about Bernie. What Adrienne might think about this. About them. If there even is a them. She suddenly feels overwhelmed with it all, with everything, with Bernie right in front of her. A confusing mess of snuggling close, of holding hands, of almost kissing in the snow. She wishes she knew what it meant, wishes either of them would define just what it is that’s going on.

“We don’t put real clothes on today either,” Bernie says, sitting up in bed and watching Serena walk to the door. “The one day a year.” Serena pauses before opening the door, looks at Bernie over her shoulder, the morning sun bathing her in a buttery halo, her oversized shirt just hanging off one shoulder, her thin collarbone beautiful, casting a shadow on her skin.

There are small presents for everyone under the tree, silly socks and board games and candy. Ingrid brings out a box of Christmas crackers and Bernie gives Serena the paper crown when the one they pull on the ends of explodes, startling them both into laughter. She places the red tissue on Serena’s head so carefully, so methodically, and when she sits down again, it’s close enough that their thighs touch. 

At some point, old Christmas records come out and they all sing along, Crawford loudly telling Serena she’s got the best voice in the family, and if anyone thinks it’s strange that she’s been so adopted by the Wolfes, they don’t say anything about it.

They have Christmas dinner in the afternoon, potato roasties and a gleaming chicken in the center of the table. Ingrid proudly watches spoonful after spoonful get dumped on plates, brushes off compliments at how good it all tastes. 

And when it’s all said and done, their stomachs full, their appetites sated, Bernie gets up to clear the table, Serena standing quickly to help. As they reach the door to the kitchen, plates in hand Lucas crows victoriously, making them both pause to look at him. He points at the door jamb, Jacob mirroring it, and before Serena looks up, she feels certain she knows what she’ll see.

A tiny sprig of mistletoe, unnoticed and unassuming, hanging right over their heads. 

Bernie is beet red and her mouth open, already saying words of apology that Serena doesn’t want to hear. Instead she leans in, over dishes streaked with gravy, over the remains of Christmas roast, and kisses Bernie on the lips, silencing her, asking her to speak in another way.

It’s awkward and strange, with Bernie’s whole family watching and their hands full of anything but each other. Serena pulls away with the distinct feeling that she wants to that again. More than once. That she might explode if she has to wait much longer before she can kiss Bernie properly, now that she’s gotten a taste of it.

She sees a flash of surprise in Bernie’s eyes, just wonders how it is that she didn’t know, wonders if perhaps they’ve both been a little shy, both been a little blinded, both fallen a little in love. Jacob lets out a small whooping cheer, and Serena thinks perhaps there’s been some side-betting. Can’t quite blame them, can’t find anything to feel except happiness that Bernie is stood in front of her, and annoyance that she still hasn’t deposited these plates into the sink. 

Bernie tilts her head towards the kitchen, towards a room without prying eyes, a room they can escape to with the good excuse of dirty dishes. Pink-faced, Serena follows her, and the instant her hands are free, she finds herself pressed against the refrigerator, Bernie’s lips on hers, Bernie’s hands in her hair, on her hips. 

It’s invigorating, for all that it’s still quite chaste, Bernie’s family on the other side of the wall and all, but Serena still gets a slip of Bernie’s tongue, the taste of her mouth, meat and potatoes and chocolate and honeycomb, and she thinks they will do this again and again. 

“Merry Christmas?” she says when Bernie pulls away, her voice a quavering question, and Bernie nods emphatically, her hand on Serena’s cheek, thumb smoothing back and forth. 

“The present I wanted most,” she says softly, leaning in to place another peck on Serena’s smiling lips. 


End file.
